


Full Body

by littleconnections



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blow Job, Hand Job, M/M, Miscommunication, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 06:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3198626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleconnections/pseuds/littleconnections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lines of the tattoo peaked out stark and black from underneath Yamamoto's t-shirt and Gokudera clenched his fists and reminded himself that he hated the idiot</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Body

**Author's Note:**

> So this was just supposed to be something hot about Yamamoto getting tattoos and then I got feelings all over it. Oops?

Gokudera had just gotten used to Yamamoto when he left. Well, “left”. Was sent back to Japan to back up Hibari on a mission for the Vongola operation there. And then that mess was bigger than expected and he didn’t come back.

And maybe “gotten used” also wasn’t the correct way to say it either. Or rather it wasn’t that he had gotten used to Yamamoto, he was long used to the idiot himself by now as much as it pained him. No it was the fucking he had gotten used to. And he had learned to accept the way his heart beat sped up and his hands trembled slightly in the idiot’s presence. He had admitted to himself what that probably meant. 

Then Yamamoto left and didn’t come back. 

Gokudera wasn’t bitter. 

“Are you okay Gokudera?” Tsuna’s eyes were worried when Gokudera looked up into them from the pile of papers he was carrying. His own eyes ached, eyeballs itching and calling for sleep but he scrubbed them, pushing it away. He had work to get through. 

“I’m fine, boss,” he said instead, “I just haven’t slept much.”

“Missing your friend Yamamoto?” Mokuro’s smile was wide and mocking and the emphasis he put on the word friend made Gokudera’s back lock up.

“Why the fuck,” he ground out, “would I be missing that dumbass? Besides he’s been gone for,” four months and two weeks, “Forever. Don’t you have some pretty pictures to conjure up or something? I have actual work to do.”

Mokuro laughed and Gokudera shoved past him, ignoring the tired look on Tsuna’s face and the aching in his back and the way his head was pounding. He ground his teeth together and dropped the papers on his desk, woke up his laptop and stared at the table in front of him, eyes burning, mouth filled with needles and hate. 

He clicked on his email account and there was a message from Yamamoto. 

Hey Gokudera it’s been totally crazy here! Hibari took me out to…

The preview cut off there and Gokudera stared and stared and stared. The last message he had received had come six weeks ago and it had been as cheerful and weirdly empty as this one was sure to be so he dragged the cursor over it and deleted the whole thing. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need spaced out, non-specific messages that distracted him from the work that needed to be done. He didn’t need Yamamoto. 

Not if Yamamoto wasn’t even trying to come back. 

The messages didn’t stop but they stayed random and distant until finally, about a year later there was another one in his inbox. 

Hey Gokudera my flights are booked so I’ll see you next week. I hope…

Gokudera knocked the ashtray off his desk and spent the next five minutes cleaning ash off everything, cursing furiously. Like it wasn’t bad enough that the asshole had decided to come back, no, now he had to clean everything because of him. It was not- It was unacceptable. The whole thing was unacceptable. Gokudera wasn’t going to be here for it. 

“No, Gokudera, there’s no mission I can send you on for the next few weeks,” Tsuna said. His gaze was steady and Gokudera had a sneaking suspicion there was a tiny smile hiding at the corner of his mouth. 

“Not even,” Gokudera said and it was dangerously close to begging, “like a diplomatic mission? To the Colieri? Or the Varia? Someone needs to keep contact with them.”

“You hate the Varia,” Tsuna said. 

He did hate the Varia but not as much as he hated Yamamoto. But Tsuna’s eyes stayed on his and finally Gokudera looked away. 

“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Tsuna asked and Gokudera hunched his shoulders and wished he had a cigarette with him right now. 

“Nothing’s wrong!” the smile was the brightest he could summon right now but he wasn’t sure it wasn’t just a bearing of teeth, “Well thanks boss. If you think of anything, please let me now. I have work to do now!”

And then he turned and ran and pretended he didn’t hear Tsuna’s tiny sigh as the doors of the office closed behind him. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to try to avoid the welcoming ceremony because he knew that Tsuna wouldn’t hesitate to send Ryouhei to drag him out of his rooms and he really didn’t want to face that indignity. So he was waiting with the other Guardians in the front hall, dressed in his best suit and his rings on his fingers, standing as tall as he could and his mouth a vicious slash in his face. 

They heard Yamamoto first as he cheerfully thanked the driver in atrocious Italian and slammed shut the door of the car that had driven him in from the airport and then the enormous doors of the Vongola mansion opened and Yamamoto entered, smiling widely. 

“Oh hey,” he said and his gaze swept over the assembled Guardians before halting on Gokudera, smile breaking wide over his face, “you’re all here.”

He wasn’t wearing a suit. Gokudera had spent the last year or so stubbornly refusing to think about   
Yamamoto and it seemed that it had succeeded in washing out his memory of him somewhat. Or maybe he was taller now, hair blacker and infuriatingly tousled, shoulders broader, stretching under the white t-shirt he was wearing. He moved with an easy confidence, in complete control of his body, his movements. Gokudera hated him so much that his mouth was dry, hands balled into fist to keep them from trembling and his heart was beating against his ribcage. 

He couldn’t leave yet so he watched instead as Yamamoto moved forward and hugged Tsuna, pulling him close and tousling his hair. Gokudera could see the line of his arm, the lean lines of muscle and he could also see the black lines in Yamamoto skin. Just a hint, a tiny edge that disappeared under the t-shirt sleeve. 

“Hope your side of things has had fewer explosions boss,” Yamamoto exclaimed in delight.

Tsuna smiled and hugged him back and it was jealousy that was making Gokudera’s stomach tighten in on itself because- well it had been a long time since he had gotten hugged by Tsuna like that. 

“Go get some rest after your flight,” Tsuna said to Yamamoto then turned to address the rest of them, 

“We’ll be having a welcome dinner tonight, so please come to the dining room at eight.”

Tsuna met Gokudera’s eyes between the rest of the guardians and Gokudera knew with a sinking heart that he wasn’t going to be allowed to skip this dinner either. He could, however, take this chance while Yamamoto was still being mobbed by Ryouhei and Lambo to get the fuck out of there so he turned and walked away as swiftly as he could without attracting too much attention. He thought he felt Yamamoto’s gaze itching right between his shoulder blades and as soon as he closed the door to the main hall behind him he broke into a sprint and didn’t stop until he had slammed the door of his rooms shut behind him. 

He spent the time until dinner picking out what to wear. Not that he thought Yamamoto was going to notice because an idiot like that never noticed. No he was doing this because he there was a fear deep in his stomach and he had always known clothes can be a sort of armor, a protection against the world. He didn’t think about why he would need that protection to have a family dinner for Yamamoto’s return just like he didn’t think about the movement of Yamamoto’s hips when he walked, didn’t imagine the continuation of those stark, black edges and when he did think about it he clenched his fists and spilled his jewelry box on the floor, observing the mess of cold silver and spikes with bitter satisfaction.   
He hated Yamamoto, he reminded himself. He was a selfish idiot. 

Sometime around changing his outfit for the third time he heard someone coming up the corridor, soft, soft padding steps. Gokudera paused, shirt half buttoned and the steps stopped in front of his door. Gokudera’s heart beat thumped against his chest, wild and heavy and overpowering but whoever it was didn’t knock and didn’t try to enter, just left again after the moment has stretched to the breaking point.

Gokudera looked at himself in the mirror, the white of his shirt and tight line of his pants. It made him look too pale, he decided, hands shaking as he started unbuttoning it again. Besides it had probably just been Tsuna outside of his room.

In the end he decided on an outfit that looked much like his regular clothes. The differences were subtle, the higher quality of his t-shirt, the better cut of his jeans. The bracelets had spikes on them and the necklace resting against his collar was a gift from Bianchi. He styled his hair and put on his boxrings and then it was time for dinner. 

Gokudera sat where he always sat, on Tsuna’s right side. Of course that meant that as the guest of honor Yamamoto was sitting right across from him, on Tsuna’s left. He was still wearing the same clothes, hair rumpled from sleep and Gokudera swallowed and avoided Yamamoto trying to catch his eye, scanning the rest of the table instead. The other Guardians are all there except for Hibari, who had refused to leave Japan ever again after the first trip to Italy when Tsuna had first accepted his inheritance. Lambo, now ten years old and slightly less exhausting, was sitting beside Ryouhei. Mokuro was whispering something to Chrome, amusement visible on his face. Him Gokudera didn’t want to look at either. 

Dinner was antipasti and then bistecca alla fiorentina, complete with small, roasted potatoes and salad. Desert was tiramisu. Gokudera ate steadily because he couldn’t be asked to participate in the conversation if his mouth was full. 

“No it was fine mostly,” Yamamoto said, “it’s not like they were ever a real threat, you know?”

Gokudera stabbed his steak and started sawing through it, taking no time for the niceties of proper table manners. When he glanced up at Yamamoto he was looking at Tsuna, face relaxed and animated, chatting about the mission he had just completed in Japan. Since he was distracted Gokudera let himself look for a moment, eyes drawn to the black edges under his t-shirt again. They were regular and geometric he could tell now, and visible under both sleeves though he couldn’t make out anything of the design, only the black filling. 

Apparently he wasn’t the only one who had noticed because on Yamamoto’s left side Lambo, bored with the formality of dinner, poked Yamamoto’s bicep, trying to push up the sleeve of his shirt.

“Did you get tattoos?” he yelled and the whole table hushed, turning towards them. 

“Haha,” Yamamoto said, “yeah I did. Wanna see?”

No, Gokudera did not want to see but Lambo yelled in agreement and Yamamoto glanced across the table at him before pushing up the sleeve to reveal the design. 

It filled his whole upper arm, stark black geometry a background for rain and flames, tiny hints of color climbing further up his shoulder, under his shirt. How far did it go? How much of Yamamoto was covered with ink?

“Those are Yakuza tattoos,” Gokudera blurted out, forgetting his resolve to not speak to Yamamoto. 

“Well I’m in the mafia,” Yamamoto said letting his sleeve drop, smile wide, “I figured it was traditional.”

“We are not the Yakuza you utter moron,” Gokudera hissed, “It’s not the same thing!”

“Haha,” Yamamoto said, eyes never leaving Gokudera’s face, “so you don’t think they’re cool?”

“No I don’t think they’re cool!” he yelled and he didn’t, he didn’t, he didn’t and he wasn’t going to look away first either. 

“I think they’re cool!” Ryouhei interjected, “Maybe I should get some too, when I go back this summer?”  
The tension was broken and Yamamoto turned away to talk to Ryouhei about where he had gotten his stupid tattoos done and Gokudera focused back on his plate, spearing potatoes with vengeance. He thought Tsuna might be looking at him in concern but he had resolved not to look up again for the rest of the evening. 

Finally, finally dinner was over and Gokudera escaped from the table, almost running as he made his way into the gardens. He could smoke in his rooms but sometimes he liked to go outside and after an evening like this he didn’t want to feel trapped. There was an alcove in the gardens that he was pretty sure no one but him knew, a statue of Vulcan tucked behind a massive tree and that was where he went, sighing as he blew the smoke towards the starry sky. The light of the mansion was dim enough here that you could even make out a few. 

He stood for a while and smoked, flicking his ashes into the ashes he had placed on the pillar of the statue. The god of fire and volcanos would forgive him he figured. Slowly the tension inside him started to loosen and he almost felt like he would be able to go back inside and sneak up to his rooms, maybe start working on that new bomb he had been planning-

“Gokudera!” it was unmistakably Yamamoto’s voice, calling from somewhere in the garden’s

Gokudera froze and stayed that way, thinking perhaps that if he didn’t move then Yamamoto would just leave again, wander off distracted by something shiny. For a moment it looked like it had worked and then Yamamoto popped out from behind the tree. 

“There you are!” he said, “I was looking for you.”

His movements were almost silent as he crossed the grass. Gokudera half turned and stubbed out his cigarette, grinding the stub into the ashtray before putting it back onto the pillar of the statue. He did not want to be here.

“Go away,” he said, “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Yamamoto didn’t go away though. Instead he came closer and Gokudera couldn’t help looking at him, the long lines of his limbs, all lean muscle and control and then he was close, too close, closer than normal. Close enough that Gokudera had to tilt his head back if he didn’t want to be staring at Yamamoto’s chest. 

Yamamoto’s smile was fond and easy and oh so familiar and his hand came up and rested on the side of Gokudera’s neck, thumb tracing along his jaw. Gokudera’s heart was going crazy again and he wanted to pull away and yell but he didn’t, just stared.

“I’ve missed you,” Yamamoto said and then he leaned down and kissed him. 

For a moment Gokudera was tempted to go along with it. It was familiar and easy and Yamamoto was so close and so warm. He could lean into it, kiss him back and then they would go back to the mansion together and he would peel Yamamoto out of his clothes, could run his hands over his skin, see how far that tattoo really went. 

Instead he wrenched back. 

“No!” Gokudera gesticulated wildly, finger pointing at Yamamoto’s face, “No, you don’t get to do that, to pick up like nothing has happened after you leave for a year and only send me those empty emails! Eight! Eight emails in a year! You don’t do that, you don’t leave and then send emails like that to your-“ 

Boyfriend. The word died in his mouth. 

“You told me it didn’t mean anything,” Yamamoto said and his voice was different. Quiet. Hard. “You told me, again and again, that it was just sex.”

“I-“ Gokudera licked his lips, “no I didn’t and it-“

Yamamoto looked at him. Just looked, dark eyes fixed on Gokudera and not a hint of a smile on his face. Gokudera remembered telling him that, remembered protesting and shoving Yamamoto away and he did but he didn’t mean-

“Yeah, okay,” he said and his voice was small, “but how was I supposed to know that this was the one time you’d listen to me?”

Everything broke like water in a dam and they were moving together again, eager to get their hands on each other, touching and kissing, so close, so close as close as they could get. 

They kissed and they kissed and they kissed. It was stupid, they were stupid. Gokudera moved close to Yamamoto, crowding him backwards. Yamamoto gave way, encouraged him, hands trailing down over his sides, to his hips, pulling him closer, closer until Yamamoto’s back hit the tree. 

“Ow,” he said and pulled away, smiling down at Gokudera all crooked and goofy. Gokudera was panting a little. He felt dizzy and happy, in a way he had forgotten he could be, all down in his stomach and chest, filling him up like a balloon filled with light. 

“Come on,” he said, stepping backward, “let’s go inside.”

They didn’t touch while walking inside but Gokudera was very aware of Yamamoto’s presence just behind his left shoulder, warm and solid. His head was spinning a little with quick change in his feelings but he didn’t want to think about that now, possibly ever. 

He led the way to Yamamoto’s rooms because his own were still filled with clothes and jewelry on the floor, an atmosphere of vicious anger and shame. Yamamoto’s rooms were cool and impersonal, the items he had left here neatly dusted and lined up by the staff in a way Yamamoto never would and all his clothes still packed into the suitcase sitting at the foot of the unmade bed. 

They didn’t waste any time, kicking off their shoes and socks, unbuttoning pants, sliding out of their shirts. But when Yamamoto lifted the shirt over his head and pulled it off Gokudera was distracted. The tattoo covered his whole upper arms and crawled over his shoulder and onto his chest, not meeting in the middle. It was intricate and bold and Gokudera was dimly aware that his mouth was hanging open. Yamamoto dropped the shirt and caught his gaze with his hands resting on the waistband of his pants. He grinned at Gokudera and turned around, slowly sliding his pants over his hips. 

It covered his whole back too. 

His whole back and every inch of skin Yamamoto uncovered sliding his pants and briefs down, over the muscles of his ass until about the middle of his long thighs. Gokudera swallowed, eyes roaming over it. There was a bird at the top of his back and a dog lower down, everything overlaid with rain and flames and occasional flower petals over the stark, filled, black of the background. 

The pants dropped to the ground and Yamamoto turned back. He laughed out loud when he caught sight of Gokudera’s face and Gokudera wondered what he must look like, shirt forgotten in his hands, mouth open and heat creeping into his cheeks. 

Yamamoto stepped out of his pants and threw himself onto the bed, face first and looked back at Gokudera over his shoulder, his whole, long back and tattoos on display. 

“Well come on then,” he said and his grin was blinding. 

Gokudera tossed his shirt to the side and shoved his pants out of the way. He climbed onto the bed, swinging one leg over Yamamoto until he’s sitting on his lower back, the glory of his tattoo spread out under Gokudera’s hands. 

He runs his hands over it, marveling at softness of the skin, how it didn’t feel any different from other skin. He traced the lines and marvels how he could see Jirou and Kojirou in the bird and the dog, stylized as they were. Yamamoto stayed still underneath him, breathing quietly, muscles calm and relaxed under Gokudera’s fingers. Gokudera ran his hands over the images, over Yamamoto’s shoulders and up his arms, following them until he was leaning over Yamamoto’s back and he could kiss his neck, where there weren’t any tattoos. 

“Mmm,” Yamamoto hummed, “I knew you’d like them.”

Gokudera bit him for that, not too hard and he was reward with a quiet gasp from Yamamoto, an almost imperceptible jerk of his hips. It was good to see that some things seemed to stay the same. 

“Shut up,” he said, “They’re still stupid. We’re not part of the Yakuza.”

Yamamoto’s laugh was full body and easy, just like the way he twisted his arms out of Gokudera’s grasp and jerked so that Gokudera fell on the bed beside him and he could roll over and pin him to the mattress. 

“Hi,” Yamamoto said and his face was open and so, so happy and the soft curl of his smile was small and intimate. It almost hurt to look at him because when he did Gokudera felt bitterly ashamed and he didn’t want to feel like that, didn’t want to feel anything expect shaking apart.

So he rolled his hips upwards, “you want to fuck or not then?”

Yamamoto laughed and kissed him, long and hard and Gokudera kissed back, got lost in it, the heat and the feel against his tongue, the press of Yamamoto on top of him, his solid weight, his back under his fingers. He didn’t know how long they just kissed but he was breathless and not thinking of anything else anymore when Yamamoto pulled back and started kissing his way down Gokudera’s torso instead. 

If he could think Gokudera might have hate him for this, the fact that Yamamoto had no brains but he was so good at this, the easy physicality of it. He couldn’t think though, because Yamamoto’s dark eyes were half closed and wicked, his mouth ghosting over his skin, gauging his reactions and Gokudera shivered under him. He saw the glitter in Yamamoto’s eyes and felt the curve of his smile against his hipbone and the press of his hands against his thighs and then Yamamoto’s long fingers were wrapping themselves around his dick and his mouth was coming down on it and Gokudera was gasping and arching. 

Gokudera opened his eyes and looked down himself at Yamamoto between his spread thighs, eyes closed, mouth around his dick and his back, his back and his glorious tattoos, inverted from this angle and he could see the muscles shift underneath them as Yamamoto worked his mouth around his dick and then Gokudera lost focus, tipping his head back and arching into the feeling, Yamamoto’s strong hands pining him to the bed.

He’d missed this, not that he would ever admit it. Yamamoto’s clever mouth working him over, the sensations building in his stomach and on his skin until he was begging and trembling and finally coming, spilling in Yamamoto’s mouth. 

Yamamoto pulled off and swallowed, looking pleased with himself as Gokudera panted and tried to find his words again. 

“Come here,” he said finally and Yamamoto pushed himself up the bed again until they could kiss, wet and dirty, the bitter remnants of Gokudera’s come on Yamamoto’s tongue. 

He could still feel the hard length of Yamamoto’s dick against his stomach and so Gokudera wormed a hand down between them, Yamamoto lifting himself up slightly to help with the process until he could wrap a hand around it, jerking once, twice before pulling back in order to push at Yamamoto’s shoulder, urging him onto his back and licking a long strip along his hand. 

Then he began to jerk Yamamoto off in earnest. He watched his face, trying to determine if he stilled liked it the same way, tight and quick and Yamamoto’s slack face, head tilted back, tattooed shoulders trembling seemed to indicate yes, yes he did and it wasn’t long at all until Yamamoto jerked and shook and came all over Gokudera’s closed fist. 

Gokudera’s hand was gross and sticky, so he rolled off the bed and padded into the adjoined bathroom, cleaning the come off his fingers. He didn’t look at himself in the mirror, not really, just a quick glance at his flushed skin, pink high on his cheeks and eyes glassy. He looked dumb, he decided and threw the towel he used to dry his hands to the side with too much force. 

Yamamoto was still lying on the covers when he came back out, eyes half closed and mouth opened. He stared at Gokudera and didn’t seem to think he looked stupid so Gokudera decided to pull on his boxers and climb back onto the bed, despite the fact that he had always left before. Yamamoto’s smile was wide and trembled a little at the edges and Gokudera jerked the blanket around to wiggle under it, daring him to say something. 

He didn’t though, just found himself a t-shirt and some underwear, turned off the light and climbed into the bed as well. They moved around to find a comfortable position until finally their lying side by side, curled towards each other and just barely touching. Gokudera’s hand was on Yamamoto’s shoulder, tracing the edge of his tattoo. The half-light of the room made it look very, very black against Yamamoto’s pale skin. 

Gokudera swallowed, “Do you really-“

He didn’t continue, didn’t want to be so desperate and needy and yet he was and wanted to hear Yamamoto say it, that he loved him, forgave him, hadn’t spent the last year running away from him. 

“Yeah,” Yamamoto said and his smile is soft and kind and small, “yeah of course I do. I love you.”

“Oh,” Gokudera said, “Me too.”

Yamamoto gave a soft huff of laughter and his hand closed over Gokudera’s, twining their fingers together. 

“Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed yourself, come say hi on my tumblr if you feel like, I'm littleconnections there too.
> 
> Also: the trouble in Japan was much more severe than Yamamoto makes it sound and involved some assassinations (Yamamoto) and well placed maimings (Hibari) to get everything back under control. Tsuna was aware would have sent in the Varia if he really thought they need help.


End file.
